Kate Harrington

Past and Present

Someday I hope to have good news to announce, i.e. the publication date for Quantum Quest, which brings to a close my many years of writing the Pawn Quest trilogy. Those years reflect my involvement, not the far shorter time that actually passes in the tale.

Meanwhile, I’m preparing an Afterward to be included in this last volume, a part of which is directly below:

***

Many years ago, I turned to writing when I realized that the coming birth of my daughter would delay my dream of finally putting my library degree to work. On the other hand, those years of reading aloud to my children reawakened my deep love of juvenile literature, so that ultimately I found my niche as a Youth Services librarian.

My early writing attempts resulted in many false starts. One idea that endured combined a picture and an emotion. Out of my old manual typewriter came a description of a teenaged boy on a strange planet—but who was he? Why was he there? About the same time, I read an article of a mother losing her children to authorities through no fault of her own. Fiery protective instincts flared for my own kids, and also for that boy isolated on another planet; he too had a mother—somewhere—who cared.

Over the years, Ran’s story grew, he made friends, he landed into trouble and boarded that starship. My children grew older as we moved and moved again. I thought about applying for a job but, after that long hiatus from school, had lost confidence in myself in spite of my masters degree. Therapy aided my move out into the world, helped me find my dream job in a public library system, and gave me the courage to divorce my husband. For years, I was busy and happy, and wrote sporadically.

The tale continued growing, but remained unfinished. In those last years before the Covid-19 epidemic, my characters began clamoring for release. Ran and friends were stuck somewhere in the middle of a Hero’s Journey with no escape. Typhus demanded his own adventure. And I too felt stuck in a story with no end.

Somehow I had to free myself from the beginning of the tale, so that my characters could complete their coming of age adventures. But again I had fears and self-doubts, just as years before I had doubted myself when facing the job market. If I couldn’t finish, maybe I should quit altogether. But the thought of quitting caused a profound sense of loss. My only other route was to walk into a new terror, the unknowns of self-publishing.

***

One last volume awaits going to press, but my terrors have now moved on to the challenge of publicity, not publication. I am both working on it and avoiding thinking about it.

Years ago, I accidentally drove my car into a ditch. A very kind man stopped to help. To my embarrassment and shame, that act of being pulled out of the ditch brought up fear that caused me to hit the brake pedal.

How many times in my life have I acted against my own good? I don’t believe I’m the only one.

For months, the book was in the hands of a copyeditor. It now awaits a jacket cover. I suspect the slow progress is due to my own vibes of “not yet, not yet,” and the universe is listening.

It’s time to lose the fear and take my involuntary foot off the brake.

Recipes for Balance

Saffron crocuses in my backyard. Every day or two there are new blossoms from which to harvest the red stigmas. What luxury!

Years ago, while waiting to hear back from a job application, I gave myself orders to: Take a walk. Talk to someone. Write something. I see now that that recipe served me to balance Body, Mind and Spirit. Nowadays, I find myself looking for balance again (without any specific orders, alas).

As mentioned last week, my therapist says “The only thing to do is to do it.” I squeezed in that blog between putting my son on a plane and attending a noon meeting. The next thing I knew, I was weeding and mowing a section of the front yard. Aha! I thought: Life in Balance, both head and body alive.

But I haven’t worked in the yard since. Maybe after this blog goes to press?

Balancing a diet is what is needed for Sophie Dog. She’s had troubles since last June. Back then, we were fighting diarrhea. I think there was a parasite dogs were getting into at the park. Anyway, it took a long time and finally some antibiotics to clear up the matter.

That bout of diarrhea spoiled Sophie against ever going back to her very nutritious kibbles. No, only chicken and veggies for her, thank you very much. But by then, she had also been diagnosed with kidney disease, stage 2.

So now she needed to switch over to an approved kidney diet. As her chief cook, I’ve been preparing batches of food for her, keeping tabs on the ingredients in each recipe, slowly folding in a bit more kidney-approved kibble into each new mix, but . . .

We began Recipe # 10. Sophie certainly ate a few meals of it, maybe a quarter or a third of the batch, but then she quit cold ~~turkey~~ chicken.

Aargh! Nothing interested her. I didn’t have anything to offer until I’d cooked up more chicken. By that time, she was refusing everything. After several meals of chicken broth, she finally agreed to consume chicken and sweet potato. Now she’s up to chicken, sweet potato and some oatmeal. But no kibble yet.

This morning the vet assured me that occasionally going off food is par for the course with kidney disease. And Sophie is at a good weight for her arthritis complications, since we don’t want her carrying around too much mass.

Judging from yesterday’s meals—three of them—she’s back to doing well.

Okay then. Life is one big balancing act for us all! Sometimes it feels like we’re tensely straddling a tight rope.

I hope you all find a chance to relax and enjoy the view.

Breaking Out

Do you know how hard it is to stop a habit and then start it up again? The resistance. The second thoughts. The imaginary fears. I’m not sure what all is involved, probably all of the above. It’s certainly true where swimming is concerned and seems to be the same for blogging.

Anyway, my therapist says the only thing to do is to do it. Also, to break paralysis requires movement. The number one healer of trauma is walking. Certain events require immediate action. No time to think, just do.

Such as dead raccoons.

There are raccoons in the neighborhood, but I rarely catch a glimpse. There used to be some nights Sophie refused to go into our backyard at bedtime, so I got in the habit of taking her out front instead. I think she smelled raccoons. A neighbor said he once saw a whole tribe of raccoons walking single file along the block wall behind our houses.

Evidently one raccoon fell off that wall into our carport. It was there, dead, on Saturday morning. What to do? The body was then covered with a weighted-down plastic bin and left where it fell, in sunshine.

I called 311. The city worker assured me they’d turn my information over to Animal Welfare. No word all day. That was Saturday. I didn’t make any calls on Sunday. Monday morning I called 311 again, gave them my many-digit reference number. I ended up with no new information and a second many-digit number. And no action.

What 311 doesn’t tell you is that the city does NOT pick up dead animals off private property. Nor are you allowed to dump them in with your trash, though I suspect many do, considering the alternative of paying many dollars to a private company.

I called the top-rated company. Their recorded message was that they were booked into November. What to do? I went out to weed the yard. Movement! It helps one think things through. That’s when I thought of my own pest control company. No, they didn’t pick up dead animals either, but recommended Critter Control.

I called and spoke to a lovely young person in Georgia. She said someone would come out, and then send a work order for me to accept, and then someone else would come take care of the matter. What? I protested. That much coming and going sounded overly wasteful of time and energy to remove one dead critter. Instead, she agreed to take my information and have someone local call me within 20 minutes. It didn’t happen. That was Monday.

On Tuesday noon I got the call, which was good because two appointments had filled my morning. We chatted, the man sent a doc to my email account. After signing and paying $$$$, someone arrived within two hours.

As I mentioned, the raccoon was in a sunny spot. The maggots were spectacular. I said we’d thought of bagging it. The tech agreed that would have been a good idea, and to have stored it in the shade. Next time. He also sanitized the area.

Whew! A four day dilemma solved.

Okay. Having completed this blog, I’ll do my best to continue. See you next week!

For the Birds

The heat is on—outside and sometimes in. A call to repair my swamp cooler (because water was pouring off the roof) eventually brought a repairman. He showed me a photo of a series of holes in a tube from which water was spraying. He blamed it on birds seeking water.

Note to Self: Refill the bird water dishes every day. I have two, but sometimes they go dry. I’m sure the birds would prefer an open source to having to prospect for their drinks.

A neighbor stopped to chat as I was preparing to water some bushes edging the lawn. She asked if I liked peaches. Who doesn’t? She had bought some expensive bird food, and then discovered that the birds around her fruit trees increased exponentially, so she had resorted to netting her peaches, only to find a Cooper’s hawk trapped in it.

The hawks at the park have produced a fine pair of fledglings this year. A few days ago, I watched them tussling in the street.

This morning walking Sophie, I could hear their high pitched piping in a tree a block from the park. We stood beneath it and I looked up. One of the birds still showed bits of down, but when I aimed my phone at them they took off—so no pictures.

When Sophie and I reached the park, I spotted feathers in the grass. Hmm. Did the hawks have pigeon or dove for supper last night? If I was reading the fledgling’s cries correctly, they hadn’t had breakfast yet.

And yes, those peaches were delicious. As are the tiny plums she gave me.

Here’s Miss Sophie in her SophieMobile. She gets to avoid hot streets in the evening, and I get to walk a lot faster, till we get to the shady park.

We’re still wrestling with her digestive issues. Just finished another vet visit.

A Day in the Life . . .

I seem to have taken a long sabbatical from blogging. And, I noticed that I was eating for no-good-reason and also exercising less, ditto. It occurred to me that maybe the eating was to replace the writing I wasn’t doing, and that I need to get back into a weekly rhythm of blogging, which requires an introspection of the mind, rather than a stuffing of the body.

Recently on NPR, Scott Detrow interviewed Kenn Adams, a playwright, who has developed an 8-sentence narrative device he calls Story Spine. So, how about if we start that way:

Once upon a time there was a woman who lived contentedly with her wonderful husband and their loving dog.
Everyday, her husband prepared the dog meals and they divided the dog walks between them; and, as he slipped deeper and deeper into dementia, he maintained those daily rhythms.
But one day, he took the dog for a walk and didn’t come home.
Suddenly, the whole neighborhood and the police were looking for him, until hours later she got a call saying the two had been found.
Because of that, she took charge of his meds, saw to it that he took them on time, and monitored his movements more closely.
Because of that, she took on more and more of the daily duties.
Until finally, he stopped eating and told her that he was ready — no, that he insisted (with a thump of his fist to his knee) on dying and within a few days he was gone.
And ever since then she has lived with both a sorrow and a great gratitude for having had 34 years of contentment with such a wonderful man.

Two years later

Once upon a time, a woman had a small dog, the last living (aside from friends) remnant of her life with her husband, dead these two years and four months.
Every day, she fed and walked the sweet dog who rewarded her by staying close and by sleeping beside her at night.
But one day, the dog got diarrhea and was taken to the vet for treatment; but a change of diet with added probiotics and psyllium fiber didn’t seem to help.
Suddenly, the dog stopped eating.

Never enough sofa time for a sick Sophie.

With Sophie’s refusal to eat, I experienced PTSD. A deep sense of grief washed through me. Been there, done that—but was this the same as before? After waiting to hear from the vet, I called them again. This time we got an appointment for emergency care.

All Sophie’s vitals checked out. She was treated for nausea, received hydration, and is back home with an antibiotic.

So not this time, no new loss. Sophie is going to get better.

On Weeding: Plants and Lives

On weeding plants. Our strange winter—mostly warm with lots of early moisture—has left Sophie with a dilemma of how to pass through the barrier to the walkway in our backyard where she goes to do her business. Actually, that particular barrier is the over-grown fall crocuses from which I harvested their saffron last year. Such giving plants, I thought, deserved to not be mowed down.

But when Sophie looks for alternate routes, she discovers weeds, lots of them, especially large wild mustard plants.

I will say one good thing about Daylight Savings Time—and I absolutely hate those bi-yearly clock switches—is that I find time and daylight after supper to go outside to weed. I hope to seed part of the cleared area with a flower mix, which needs to be scattered right now. It’s hurry up and clear the ground time.

On weeding lives. Actually the life needing to be weeded is singular—my own—though my intrusive weeds are multiple. I’m not going to list them, thank you very much. Their nature is to fill in any space where there’s a vacancy. In my case, this means escaping into books and dvds. Anything to not think or feel.

I recommend having a therapist to help work through the mess grief makes of one’s life. I’m very good at shoving feelings deep down; those burials leave a kind of emptiness which therapy helps refill.

Another source of help came when I accepted a challenge to write morning pages for two weeks. Filling both sides of a sheet of paper has served as a kind of meditation, recording a jumble of thoughts.

This week, I sat in a sunny spot scribbling away. It occurred to me that the little nook I was in would be an ideal setting for my drop-leaf desk, which then stood in a dark, chilly corner. In the sun, I might be much more inclined to actually put it to use.

That idea came so alive that I started in immediately. Two sets of shelves have been emptied, scrubbed, and relocated to make room for the also emptied and scrubbed desk. Years of thinking about downsizing turned into action with this little move.The detritus—items I’m not putting back on the shelves or into the desk—remain to be sorted and redistributed.

Inside and outside weeding. Sigh. Well, both labors are a beginning.

How about you? What kind of clearing out have you been putting off?

Bouncing from book to book

I apologize for my long silence. As my therapist tells me—I’ve never been here before; never been widowed—two years today. Sometimes I bury myself in fiction (especially familiar stories) rather than ponder indecision and unanswered questions such as Where do I go from here?

So, where thoughts and books are concerned, it came as a pleasant surprise to discover energy in exploring and pondering topics found in not one but four non-fiction books simultaneously.

The first showed up in the library box at my neighborhood park. Goddesses in Older Women; Archetypes in Women over Fifty,by Jean Shinoda Bolen, MD. 2001, which highlights the wisdom and understanding gained over the years that now can enrich our lives. The book reminds me of my readings on goddess religions decades ago, which inspired the backgrounds of my as-yet-unpublished fairytale retellings.

Then there’s a title mentioned by a friend. I began reading a library copy and ended up purchasing my own, which fully intend to return to reading soon. Goliath’s Curse; The History and Future of Societal Collapse, by Luke Kemp, 2025, explores, as far back as the Stone Age, the rise and fall of societies. The more we are on an equal footing with each other, the longer our societies last. The curse in the title relates to the accumulation of goods by a few. Beginning in agricultural times, certain crops lent themselves to storage and plunder. Societies, watch out!

The only book I’ve completely read (and returned to the library) was for a class on climate change. Bill McKibben’s Here Comes the Sun, 2025. Though McKibben doesn’t ignore the problems in store, he writes glowingly of where we’re headed, but—like the top dogs in Goliath’s Curse—today’s holders of petrochemicals are fighting hard to retain their “wealth” in the face of solar and wind energy freely available worldwide. We really have a lot of work to do in a very short window of time!

And finally, from the public library’s new book shelf, I grabbed up The Last American President; A Broken Man, a Corrupt Party, and a World on the Brink, by Thom Hartman. It makes for grim reading, as he details the many decades long course of actions that has brought our country to the extreme wealth-gap of today.

I need to get back to reading. What happens when societies collapse? How are we to get past this tug of war between renewable energies and petrochemical oligarchs? And how will we tackle the long struggle ahead?

***

Fifty years ago, a brain child of mine appeared with the picture of a teenager standing on a strange planet. Over the years, that vision has grown to a saga, the Pawn Quest trilogy plus one. The final volume is currently in the hands of a copyeditor. I mention it because its conclusion is dependent on the cooperation of teens and adults and even former adversaries.

We’re all in this together.

Out of Step

I was raking leaves yesterday. Our fall leaf pickup was a month ago. That’s when I put out the apricot leaves—but my oak trees don’t pay attention to timetables. They are out of step.

Along with my oaks, I too have felt out of step, especially during these last few months.

I lunched with a friend a couple days ago and told her how I spent my time escaping into DVDs and books—and she was totally supportive. But it would have been much better if I too had thought what I was doing was great, rather than sitting in judgment on my inability to write. I’m only now admitting that the events of the last two years have created a burnout of my creative juices.

So, being out of step, I want to figure out how to get back into step with myself. It turns out, I have already begun.

For years, I’ve operated on the principle that New Year’s Eve is a good time to bring some projects to a close. And it is also a good time to begin a new project before the start of the new year.

Akin to the job of raking leaves is the clearing out of old paper and epaper: years of Christmas cards; emails; filing cabinets of ephemera; journals . . .

The journals alone will take a long time—years, really. But I might succeed with some sorting tasks. For instance, my filing cabinets might be reorganized within the next twelve months.

This reorganizing challenge will eventually be interrupted when the copyedits of Quantum Quest return to me, to be followed by preparing the book for publication and promotion. For that I’ll need all the creative energy I can muster.

So here’s my resolution for 2026. I will seek to regain my footing by sorting, discarding, reorganizing old matters. Hopefully, my outlook will then be ready for new challenges. And now back to raking leaves.

Let me wish you all a Productive New Year.

Where would you like to begin?

A Bumpy Ride through the holidays

For weeks, dreading this holiday season, I’ve watched myself escape into anything other than the present. Consequently, with these special days looming, I worried about my ability to take care of what needed to be done.

In the immediate past (like two weeks), I’ve started most days with five minutes of meditation. The idea is to keep myself present—at least, present to whatever duty requires my presence. No way am I going to totally disavow escapism as a way of life, since it’s been a part of me, lo these many years.

Sunday’s weekly brunch for my sons came together as planned.

Monday, I feared missing out on my swim session without repeated reminders. Instead, I told myself all would be well, that I would remember, thus freeing my mind to really pitch into what had to be done.

What an amazing day Monday turned out to be. I had two boxes to send, probably on Tuesday. But before completing my daughter’s package, I had to finish a project begun weeks ago, then set aside. A good thing I’d eaten a large breakfast. I went to work.

The project was revised, printed out, and packed—in fact, both boxes were packed and sealed—with still time to swim before the pool closed. Immediately following my swim, I stood in line at the post office to mail the packages, drove to the credit union to take care of three matters, on to the library to drop off three books and pick up one hold, and finally back home to a mid-afternoon lunch.

Yay, me! I took the rest of the day off.

Most of Tuesday was spent avoiding the idea of tackling Christmas cards, but in the evening, I completed the first two. It would be more time-efficient to write a general letter to insert in each, but since I couldn’t bring myself to do that this year, each letter is getting its own handwritten note.

This morning has been devoted to more cards. And finally, to write up this blog. The lesson is: We can do what we must.

Holidays are good.

Deadlines are invaluable.

So, how about that little matter of Global Warming?

Second Year Blues

**The long shadows of winter’s approach**

I’ve always been rather low-key when dealing with holidays. For instance, in the winter, I prefer the soft warm glow of a Christmas Eve luminaria display over a month of electric glare.

But I didn’t expect the whammy that this year brought—even before Thanksgiving. Last year, my loss was fresh, still front-and-center in my attention. And I was in a grief group. We had few expectations beyond acknowledging the holes in our lives, and any rituals we wanted to incorporate.

In this second year, my attention has moved outward—somewhat. I took two trips. I worked on the opus. I contemplated the future.

And then (as noted in my previous blog), my manuscript went to a copyeditor. My last anchor was gone. Ignoring other projects I went AWOL. Why?

Something was nagging at me that I didn’t want to pay attention to.

Two years ago, Wayne was visibly declining during our last Thanksgiving and our last Christmas. The coming holidays loomed. It took weeks to recognize that by escape reading and DVDs, I had cut out everything but meals, dog care, and any unwelcome demands on my calendar.

Mention of an early Friday morning meditation group caught my ear. My mind went ping! and I set an intention to join them.

Experts all agree that meditation is healthy. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. That’s why I prefer sitting in a group, where expectations hold me in place. After fifty minutes of silence (in two 25 minute segments), I felt awake, alert, ready to face the day’s needs.

Since then, I’ve taken a few minutes to sit in silence each morning, feet anchored on the floor, back straight, while I tell myself to be mindful during the day. Five minutes fly past, and I get up to do my PT.

It is what it is.

Understand—it’s not comfortable paying attention to old sorrows—but if I willingly enter into my feelings, they fade. They’ll return again, but experiencing those waves of sadness are preferable to shutting out the whole world just to avoid them. I need people and grounding in reality.

We’re not all alike. There are many kinds of avoidance. For instance, the hero of my sci fi novels throws himself into work. I will always enjoy escaping into fictional worlds, but within limits. I don’t need to do so at an addiction level.

How do you handle your losses and grief?